THE CHATBOT WILL SEE YOU NOW

For four weeks this summer, I traded my human therapist for an AI equivalent. It did not go well

- BY OLIVIA STREN ILLUSTRATIONS BY KAGAN MCLEOD

The first time I landed on a therapist's couch, I was 26, a junior editor at this magazine and an inveterate insomniac, deep in the quicksand of depression. I remember dressing for my session as if it were a first date, trying to appear as though I had it all together (which is to say, totally unlike the person I actually was).

While my therapist, Dr. J, learned about my sleep disorder, I inadvertently learned about hers. One day, roughly six months into our relationship—as I carried on about how just the thought of bedtime roused in me an unholy dread, how sleep had become both a skill and privilege reserved for the more fortunate, like golf or slalom skiing—her eyes lost focus, assuming an untenanted expression. My insomnia fatigued her. Even her pen lay inert, napping on her Rx pad. Then, in what seemed like slo-mo, her head bobbed onto her chest. She was asleep. I sat there, stunned, ashamed for us both. I was also jealous—she made it look so easy. Maybe I should have walked out of her office, but that seemed impolite. Instead, I announced loudly, "YOU LOOK VERY TIRED." Stirring, Dr. J muttered groggily, "Yes, I am tired." It's a low bar, expecting your therapist to remain conscious. But finding another OHIP-covered psychiatrist would have been an ordeal, so I kept seeing her for a few years until I recovered my ability to sleep. Then I took a long break from talk therapy.